


Snarled Roots

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Other, also there's a rape mention, but it's there so, it's not super graphic detail, take care of yourself when reading, this is just backstory with no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7345315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferion's history; all of the events that shaped him into who he is today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snarled Roots

**Author's Note:**

> I've altered Ferion's backstory so many times and I'm finally happy with it. I've had this floating around as a half-complete word document for a while, and I figured it was high time I finished it. 
> 
> If you want to know what Shirina and Ferion look like in-game, go here: http://gndrfvck.tumblr.com/post/144283203116/ferion-and-shirina-lavellan-brother-and-sister
> 
> Also, Ferion is presently aged at 23, in case I didn't make that clear, which I honestly didn't think I did.

_“It occurs to me I don’t actually know much about you.”_

_“What do you want to know?”_

_“I’m…not sure. Where are you from?”_

* * *

 

Small feet caked in soft, mid-spring mud and sprigs of vibrant grass pulled from loose patches flitted across the soggy earth, the forest brimming with the lively giggling of children bouncing off of ancient trees like thunder. Blue sky laid out in an untouchable expanse, draping itself comfortably across the viridescent canopy filtering checkered bars of sunlight through thick clusters of leaves. Small twigs snapped as the wet squelch of bare skin on rain kissed silt followed two small bodies down a hidden trail littered with debris from a recently passed thunderstorm.

Shirina and her younger sister Evanthe, green dresses flowing behind their pale legs, ran hand in hand through the brush and bramble, giggling all the while. Shirina, seven years old with striking brown and grey eyes wise beyond her years and hair as dark as the wet earth, led their bodies with a surefooted grin back towards the camp. Evanthe, barely five and tripping over her tenderfoot youth, blinked with green eyes as deep as the Waking Sea, hundreds of sun born freckles enveloping her pale skin in clusters of auburn discolouration.

They had left the camp at their parent’s insistence on being alone for a while, frolicking happily in the hazy afternoon sun through the forest. Pudgy, dimpled hands with fingertips stained by the ink of freshly picked berries linked as they sang lullabies and fireside tales in voices as sweet as the first wildflower blossoms after a cruel winter. Shirina and Evanthe, inseparable sisters who looked nearly identical, save for their vastly different eye colours, were two of the small handful of children belonging to the ever expanding Clan Lavellan.

When the sun began to shirk from its throne reigning across the warm day, the sisters had decided it was time to return to camp. Darkness, the heavy stumble and fall of night, was still a great beast to be feared, and neither was willing to risk returning to camp after a sleepy dusk settled over the aravels and grazing halla.

Breaking through the thick trees, Shirina and Evanthe were greeted by their parents with open arms; running straight into a loving embrace. Playful kisses from mother and father pressed into their freckled cheeks, reminding them this is where they belonged. This, the wonder and shared love of family, was home.

**…**

Teenage years were unkind, unsure, unruly. They brought fearsome apprenticeships, flittering butterflies filling bellies, snotty boys, and a newfound dislike of children under ten. They brought the promise of vallaslin, new dexterity, and the maturation of physical bodies. They brought new armour, new experiences, new life expectations, and new responsibilities.

Shirina grew into herself beautifully. Though she stood at barely five feet and two inches, her hair was long and snarled with curls an inch thick that coiled down her spine. Her skin had taken on a darker pigment, freckles exploding across her face and shoulders as her petit fingers trained with the dainty stave passed onto her from her mother; who had died unexpectedly four months ago during childbirth she’d returned to the clan with after traveling too near the outskirts of a human city with her youngest child. Her body had sprouted from bulky child to lissome adult, the thin branches of Mythl’s vallaslin tattooed across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and fanning out beneath her eyes. The boys fawned over her as she exuded grace, training as the First of the clan.

Evanthe had tripped messily through her childhood, falling quietly into misery that clamped its hand over her mouth as she grew into her teenage years. Her features were starkly brash, sharp curves and strong angles that lacked the soft seamlessness of Shirina’s features. She trained to be a force of nature, brandishing a sword twice her size as she traveled in parties of two or more to provide food for the clan. She kept quiet, rarely talking to anyone, and drifting apart from her family, her childhood friends, and herself. In silence, she hated herself and contemplated death in frequent bouts that gripped her with an unforgiving harshness.

Still barely sixteen, her adolescence passed in days that blurred into indecipherable moments stamped with anguish. The body that housed her soul felt disgustingly wrong; the high apples of her cheeks, the breasts beneath her armour, the wide hips that felt too obvious. Her father, concerned with Shirina’s magical ability and still mourning his deceased wife, had allowed his youngest to marinate in her confusion and anger, driving her into a voluntary silence.

Trauma ran through her blood so thickly, she feared it would stop her heart. Barely a year ago, she and her mother were trapped in a human alienage after drunken guards confused them for city elves, assaulting both until neither could walk nor defend themselves. They were abused until bruises exploded along their mouths, thighs, faces, and backs in sickening supernovas of blue and purple, blood pouring from their noses and swollen lips, and a strange mixture of fluids both their own and the guard’s was leaking from between their legs. The mother was the first victim, and once she had outlived her usefulness, they tied her to a nearby tree, forcing her to witness the despoiling of her young child; whose innocence was torn away from her body almost as readily as the clothing that offered no protection.

Mother and child, fearful and sickened with illness that thrived in the filthy conditions of the slum, remained trapped for four weeks before they had rebuilt the strength necessary to flee. In the pitch of a cold night, in bare feet and tattered rags for clothing, they sprinted from the walls of the city, guards on their heels, until disappearing like a whisper into the forest. The traveled without rest for nearly two days until erupting from a clearing, and collapsing at the feet of halla grazing on the underbrush.

They were rehabilitated, and six months after their return, Ghessa, the mother, was heavy with a child she did not want. The family was divided, though somehow still held together by the support of the clan alone. Shirina watched as the light that had once been in her sister’s eyes dampened, dissipating into a sorrowful silence that could not find the words to describe what she had been through. Mother and child sat together often by firelight, hands interlocked, tears streaming down high cheekbones as they prayed to Mythal for guidance, for the reintroduction of kindness into their fragmented lives. The scars of abuse were not physically evident, but the emotional havoc that it wrecked turned joy into sorrow, curiosity into fear, dreams into nightmares, and love into a cold shoulder. Shirina and her father, Feyndis, held each other as Evanthe and Ghessa worked through their trauma, in silence, together.

When the unwanted child came early by two and a half months, he died during delivery and left Ghessa gasping for breath until she fell unconscious and bled heavily; so much so that her heart stopped. She died within an hour of the violent birth, largely due to complications from the assault all those months ago.

After Ghessa’s death, Evanthe felt as though the only person she had to talk to had abandoned her to ensure the child would be led safely by Falon’Din. While the truth was actually the unfortunate mix of circumstance and physical incapability, in the months following her mother’s untimely death, Evanthe felt so brutally alone, she began to think more and more frequently about following in her mother’s footsteps.

**…**

Death never came by Evanthe’s hand. She threw herself into her apprenticeship for two long years until, like her sister, was branded with Mythal’s vallaslin. It wasn’t until eighteen did she come to terms with herself, and slowly, opened up once more.

Cloudreach, 9:36 was the last time Evanthe existed. She was a hollow husk of a person who felt like a draft through an empty room, the ghost of somebody who was never meant to exist. She crumpled to ash in private, cast off to the wind as Ferion kicked the resented dust from his footpath. He rose from the fire set to Evanthe, dusting the grey soot from his cheeks as if wiping off the blood of war. Ferion, a name derivative of his father’s, was a comfortable skin he could wear. Though still encumbered by his breasts, dirty bindings suited his whim just as well. Without telling another soul of his revelation, Ferion accepted his body as a design flaw, and slowly came into himself; molding the world like putty until he imprinted into its surface.

It started by shearing the long chestnut locks that hung lifelessly from his skull, trimming off inches until his hair was short, choppy bangs; an undecut shaved with his father’s razor against the sides of his scalp. Nobody said anything when he emerged the next morning, but the sideways glances disheartened him. He fell into line with the social façade, putting on the armour that distinguished him from the rest of the boys, replying to Evanthe’s name and to ‘she, her, girl’, all while lying he'd sheared his hair because it was an inconvenience. While the lie did come with a smidgen of truth, it felt dirty to keep the real, unadulterated truth hidden.

Shirina said nothing in public, but two days after she had heard Ferion sobbing himself to sleep after the Keeper had relentlessly called him Evanthe, she came to him with a bushel of wildflowers that smelled like their shared childhood playing in the sun.

“You…are my brother now, yes? A man?”

Ferion broke down into tears, unsure what to say. He nodded wordlessly, mouth gaping like a fish as he struggled to form the words. “I’ve always been.” He managed between the sobs, desperation wracking his ribcage as he fumbled over his own limbs. “I just couldn’t figure it out until now.”

Shirina dropped the flowers against the ground, wrapping her arms around Ferion as though she were afraid he were about to drift off into the sky. She cried against his bound chest, bringing a flood of tears to Ferion’s eyes. They stood in a tight embrace, sobbing as though Ferion had returned from the dead. The sobbed in a long coming mourning for their mother, they sobbed for the lost innocence of childhood, they sobbed for Ferion’s silence and Shirina’s inability to leave her studies long enough to comfort her brother. They sobbed for the days that past where blood would stain Ferion’s bedroll while he slept, where nightmares would leave him in cold sweats, where his mother’s death hung over him like a storm without a break. The sobbed for Shirina’s hands torn beneath the fire that sparked in her palms, for her loneliness and longing for her mother’s guidance. They sobbed until they couldn’t stand, collapsing against the ground in a tangled heap of limbs.

Shirina felt as though she were getting her family back, starting with Ferion’s newfound identity. While she couldn’t claim to understand what he was going through, she was willing to bring hell and high water to keep her brother’s soul alight. The fire that had once coursed through his body as a fresh youth began to spark once more, putting the faintest hint of colour in his dull eyes. She held him to her body as if she were protecting him from the world, fighting the demons that wished to tear Ferion apart from the inside out.

**…**

As his older sister, Shirina felt it was her duty to protect her younger brother. She was the one to give news to the Keeper of his identity with his consent, to demand he be fitted with armour that would make him more comfortable, to venomously correct the elders unwilling to let Evanthe’s name fade to a clouded memory. She did everything in her power to protect him, to give him the guidance and love he had been deprived of since the abuses he’d been dealt at sixteen.

Ferion easily found his niche among the clan’s hunters, and while they struggled initially with Ferion’s proper name and pronouns, the fact they were trying so hard put a warmth in his body he hadn’t felt since childhood. With some time and a few honest mistakes, Ferion soon dove headlong into his life as though he had been there the entire time. Life became tolerable, manageable, and the thoughts of death devolved to quiet static.

Time passed easily, and soon Ferion was happily celebrating his second decade of life, his second year of living as his authentic self. He had developed more personal and close relationships in two short years than he had in sixteen, and his self-esteem was no longer a ball-and-chain that snagged on his ankles. Being sociable became like second nature to him, and Ferion let himself relearn what it meant to love and be loved.

When a wet spring transposed into a clear summer, Ferion had been letting romantic feelings fester inside of him for months. His best friend and hunting mate, Vamael, had been the first to accept him as who he was without any ifs, ands, or buts, while still making an effort to bring the other boys around to the idea. He was very successful, and in two years, everybody all but forgot Ferion’s given name.

Two years of Vamael’s unbiased devotion as a friend sparked something deep within Ferion, and he often woke drenched in sweat after dreaming of Vamael’s tongue dragging along freckled skin, his body rutting up against Ferion’s as they gasped for breath in small spaces. The intimacy of these dreams felt shameful, and Ferion, still tarnished from trauma, was incredibly fearful of them.

But the dreams brought along troublesome emotions that left him longing, and Ferion often caught himself staring at Vamael with glazed eyes. He’d been caught only a handful of times, each time, though, more embarrassing than the last. Vamael always wore this stuck up smirk, but it often fell to something softer when he locked eyes with Ferion.

Ferion would have been content to just wait out the feelings, just pray to himself and will them away, but Vamael had other ideas. On a cool summer day sprawling across the sky with a lazy stretch, he brought Ferion out to the forest, a good distance from the camp, under the guise they should catch some extra game for the sudden influx of expecting mothers. Ferion, went willingly, but became suspicious as Vamael’s hand linked with his own, tugging them towards an open field of rolling grasses and uncut wildflowers.

“Vale, what are we doing here?” Ferion asked, using the affectionate nickname with a raised brow.

“Ferion, I’m not blind and I’m trying to…well,” Vamael sighed as though he couldn’t find the right words. “I like you, okay? You are one of the best hunters we have, and you’re funny and kind, and you don’t act like an idiot like the other boys.”

“Are you…is this…are we on a _date_?”

“Um, if you want it to be, sure. I just, thought maybe we could spend some time, you know, alone. Together.”

“I’d…I think I’d like that.”

**…**

It took all of three weeks before Ferion had kissed anybody for the first time; clumsy lips and wandering hands attempting to understand the way another person’s body worked. Another week elapsed after that before Ferion learned how to kiss back with confidence, and after the first month, he was stealing kisses at every opportunity.

Three months into their blossoming relationship, Ferion was still waking up in sweats, often egged on by the long make-out sessions he and Vamael would share on their downtime. He often thought about broaching the subject of sex, but imagining himself on his back in the grassy field they often retreated to filled his body to the brim with panic. Ferion wasn’t sure if he could ever get over the trauma when he hadn’t spoken of it, even to Shirina, but the mounting discomfort in his groin would drive him mad.

He learned, after an extended make-out session long ago had left his head swimming and his body burning with desire, how his own hands could navigate the intimidating parts of his body and leave him sticky with sweat as he brought himself to a shaking climax. He thought often of Vamael’s hands replacing his own, and the longer the time passed, the more intrusive the thoughts became.

The thoughts manifested two weeks later when Ferion’s thighs were straddling Vamaels’s hips, their lips connected as they shared breathless pants, roaming hands, and soft sounds that boiled in their abdomens. Ferion pulled away, his hands cupping Vamael’s cheeks as his freckled face was tinged a healthy pink.

“Vale, would…would it be wrong of me to admit that I’m kind of turned on every time we do this? Because I am.”

Vamael laughed breathlessly. “You’re not the only one, my dear Ferion.”

“I have a _thing_ though that kind of, well, I don’t really know if I would be okay with, you know…” He made a vague hand gesture, face darkening with blood that rushed to fill in the white of his cheeks.

“Sex?”

“Er, well, yeah.”

“Well, there are a lot of ways to get off that don’t involve the full act. The gods didn’t give us mouths to _just_ eat and speak, you know.”

Ferion laughed, swatting at Vamael’s chest playfully. “Oh, you’re awful.”

He shrugged. “It’s true.” Smirking coyly, Vamael attempted to roll Ferion on his back, but the way Ferion’s body seized, the resistance in his legs and arms as they pushed back against the ground, made him stop. “What is it? What’s wrong? You looked like I just hit you in the guts.”

“I…Vale, I can’t be put on my back. I can’t tell you why, but please don’t put me on my back. I can’t…”

“Alright, alright. Chill out. Here,” Vamael rolled back onto his own back, letting Ferion straddle him once more. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. I just…I feel like I’m disappointing you, Vale. I mean, I’m kind of disappointing myself too because I know that I want this, but I can’t do things conventionally. I’m really scared.”

“What? Disappoint me? Ferion, have you ever stopped to think that maybe I like you beyond kissing you and that I’m not entirely motivated by sex?”

“But I thought—”

“That all twenty-somethings are looking to get laid?” Ferion nodded sheepishly, and Vamael laughed. “You naiveté is endearing. I’m going to tell you that I, as a person, don’t really like the idea of somebody pleasuring me. I’m down to pleasure other people, but for myself, it’s just not something that interests me.”  

“Really?”

“Yeah. Been that way since…well, since I was a kid, I guess. If you want me to get you off, I’d be more than willing.” Vamael lightly pinched at Ferion’s hip, causing him to squirm.

“But a moment ago you said that you were turned on too.”

“Sexual arousal in my case doesn’t really have a whole lot to do with whether I’m going to listen to my dick or my brain, Ferion. Sure, I like kissing you, and I like that too hot feeling I get in my guts when I kiss you. And don’t get me wrong, you’re adorable, and, like, really attractive. But I wouldn’t fuck you for love or money.”

Ferion laughed, leaning in and pressing an affectionate kiss to Vamael’s forehead. “You are the best.” He murmured around a growing smile.

“I know. But, Ferion, listen, I’m serious. If you want to get off, and want me to do it without putting you on your back, there is a way. It would be a bit easier if we had the same parts, but, hey, I’m not complaining.”

“There is? Truly? How?”

Vamael’s hands rubbed along Ferion’s thighs, and he grinned mischievously. “So, you know how you’re straddling me now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Basically like that. Except on my face.”

**…**

After learning how to navigate his trauma together, Ferion and Vamael met in the field with the least amount of hesitation either could remember having been shared between them. Sex with Vamael was a regular, comfortable, and most importantly, consensual thing that began to happen; Ferion’s thighs resting on either side of Vamael’s head as he gripped the other’s too-blond hair and gasped his name while his body quivered with pleasure.

Vamael grew to love Ferion as they spent hours together until, finally, he worked up the nerve to tell him. Ferion was resting, completely spent on Vamael’s chest, and he murmured the three words into Ferion’s neck thrumming with his heady pulse.

Ferion, his brain processing slowly, opened his mouth in an attempt to return the word, but broke down into tears instead. Vamael laughed so hard he cried, and it wasn’t until both of them calmed down did Ferion manage to choke out a scratchy, “I love you too.”

Their relationship went on for another six months, until Vamael came to the realization he was about as keen to romance as he was towards sex, and the two fell into a queer platonic relationship that was something akin to friends with benefits. After two months of sex, Ferion began to feel guilty, though Vamael insisted he was being stupid about it, and cut off the sexual ties that remained as the skeletal fragments of their once romantic bond. They remained friends, and Vamael insisted if Ferion ever needed to get off, he was willing to help a friend out.

While he never took Vamael up on the offer, Ferion stood by his side as they struggled through the obstacles of their queer identities; leaning on one another for support neither could find anywhere else.

**…**

Almost two years after they’d broken up, they remained close, and Vamael cried harder than Shirina had when Ferion found out the Keeper’s intentions on sending him and a group of other hunters to spy on the human’s conclave.

“It is for the best, da’len.” The keeper said, handing Ferion armour that made him look like some sort of mercenary. “This is necessary for the safety of us all.”

The idea of being around humans again put Ferion’s throat in his heart, but he nodded without argument. Kissing his sister’s cheek, and being held in an embrace so tight he almost couldn’t breathe by Vamael, Ferion waved goodbye to the mundane; entirely unaware his life was about to change beyond recognition.

* * *

 

_“I thought you knew that.”_

_“I suppose I could ask Leliana. She has collected a frightening amount of information on you. But I don’t want to ask her. I want to hear it from you.”_


End file.
